I Love You Too Asshole
by Socrates7727
Summary: They're broken up, and yet Harry can't help saying yes to the Apparition request Draco sends him. Draco never asks for favors, unless it's something big. Like his father's funeral... HPDM Angsty comfort! Happy ending for drarry!


AN I don't own HP or any of the characters!

* * *

Harry was late getting home, like always, and he wanted nothing more than to walk in the door and collapse right then and there but he knew he couldn't. He had to at least eat something, or he wouldn't be able to sleep for long. Grudgingly, he threw a freezer meal into the microwave. Two minutes to cook, thirty seconds to eat, and then he could go to bed—burnt mouth and all.

Of course it couldn't be that easy, though. The creamy envelope appeared out of nowhere, materializing on the counter in front of him, but he still didn't see it right away. When he did finally notice it, he had to smile a bit. Draco had always known his routine, and the timing was no coincidence. If the deep green wax seal with an intricate M carved into it hadn't given the sender away, the loopy handwriting on the front of the envelope would have. _Harry James Potter_. He'd laughed at the formality of it the first few times, until he'd realized that the full name was part of a charm so that only he could read it.

It was an Apparition request. He shook his head at the paper with it's neat script and professional language, but scribbled a yes anyways. Draco had always done this, even when they were together, and Harry had never understood. The blond could have easily Apparated into the hallway and merely knocked on the front door of the flat, like anyone else would have, but he refused. Instead, he sent an Apparition request like this one, and, if granted, would Apparate straight into the kitchen with Harry.

Despite many attempts, Harry had never understood that particular quirk. Nevertheless, he watched the timer on the microwave and waited for the soft _whoosh_ that would announce his lover's arrival. _Ex_-lover, he corrected.

"Harry." He turned leisurely, not at all on guard or suspicious of the blond even though he probably should have been. They'd been broken up for almost a year now, but he still couldn't make himself distrust the one person who knew him better than anyone else in the world. The microwave dinged, but he left it for now.

"Hey, how are you?" Harry wasn't sure why he even bothered, because he knew the blond wouldn't return the pleasantries. Since the breakup, he had tried to contact his beautiful ex at least a hundred times—only about half of which had been while drunk—and Draco had been firmly against even writing to each other. The blond wouldn't have come without a reason, and a good one at that. Still, Harry found himself inspecting the man in his kitchen.

Draco looked good, relatively speaking, but then again he'd always been pristine and beautiful, even when his own life was falling apart. His eyes were bright, still, but a little more tired than they should have been. They'd both had trouble sleeping after the war and the trials… He was dressed in slightly informal dress robes—the kind he wore every day at the Manor, and the kind that Harry would have ripped off of him the second he got the chance when they were together.

Harry had always hated how formal his lover was, but he learned to see the value in it. Draco used it as a defense mechanism and, the more he'd began to open up, the more Harry appreciated everything that it hid. The blond was many things, but well adjusted was not one of them.

"I have a favor to ask of you." Instantly, Harry's full attention was on Draco. He, of all people, knew how much the blond hated reaching out or relying on others—let alone asking for help from his ex.

"Of course, anything." Draco winced, and only then did Harry realize what he'd said. That had always been his response to anything Draco had ever asked of him, because he knew how much it took for the blond to ask for help and he was never going to refuse something that important. He shouldn't have said that now, because they weren't close and he didn't know Draco that well anymore, but he didn't take it back.

"There's this thing I have to go to…" It wasn't a question, but they'd been together too long for Harry to pretend he didn't understand.

"You want me to go with you?" Draco took a deep breath. By now, Harry recognized the gesture for what it was—the blond, trying to stop an anxiety attack before it happened—but he didn't let himself reach out. Even if his whole body ached to comfort the man in front of him, he knew Draco wouldn't allow it.

"Not _with_ me, but…" He heard that too. They had stayed out of the public eye with their relationship for years, and Draco had no desire to change that now—especially since they were broken up. Still, after the war, Harry had become one of the only people Draco was close to. The blond didn't have many friends anymore, and those that weren't in hiding could be found beneath their headstones.

"Of course I'll go. What's the event?" As much as he wished it would be some Ministry gala or some promotional ceremony, he knew Draco wouldn't have come for something so tame. No, if Draco was here and asking for help, it had to be something bad. Something that the blond didn't trust himself to face on his own.

"A funeral." Harry's stomach dropped. They'd gone to so many funerals after the war, and even more so after the trials… Who was even left to bury?

"Who?" Instantly, those grey eyes flicked to the ground. Draco took another deep breath. God, Harry wanted to just take a step closer and wrap the man in his arms until he lost that hollow weight in his expression. He wanted to hold the man who, against all odds, he still loved until he stopped trembling with every breath. His body knew better, though, so he stayed where he was.

"Who, Draco?"

"My father." He was so emotionless as he said it, but Harry knew by now that that meant he was just trying that much harder to hide the jumbled mess of emotions in his chest. They'd been to enough funerals that they'd both seen each other break, more than once. Still, Harry had to bite his lip to keep from prying for more information. He wanted to see tears and he wanted to hear how much it hurt in that beautiful voice because he knew that he was the only person who got to see Draco like that. That wasn't his place anymore, though.

"Of course I'll be there, Drake." Just for a second, that nickname seemed to put a little bit of warmth into those grey eyes but then it was gone. Draco frowned, and Apparated without another word.

* * *

Harry stood calmly in black dress robes that Draco had helped him pick out for Fred's funeral. The cemetery was practically empty, aside from the priest and two employees who were just waiting to lower the casket. Draco stood, completely stoic, beside his mother. Narcissa was crying softly, but neither Malfoy reached to comfort the other and Harry knew that they wouldn't until the press stopped taking pictures. Pansy was there, surprisingly enough, but she kept to herself and didn't make eye contact with any of them. Rita Skeeter, along with three or four other reporters, mingled throughout their awkwardly spaced little group asking questions and demanding statements.

Harry wanted to march over there and put himself between Draco and everyone else. He wanted to shield the blond from the scrutiny that he was so accustomed to, and he wanted to scream at the reporters that grief wasn't something they should be splashing all over their front page. Especially after the war…

Already, people were asking why he was there. He'd come prepared with a story, explaining that, even though he and Lucius had never been friends, he'd still known the man and was saddened by his death. When asked if his Azkaban sentence or if his receiving the Kiss changed Harry's opinion of him, Harry had merely glared. Did how he died make him any less dead?

It was publicly known, by now, that Narcissa had saved his life during the final battle—which was why she lived freely at the Manor, and not in a cell beside Lucius. Still, Harry wasn't going to take the chance of calling attention to the Malfoys. He could have said he was there to support Narcissa because, after all, they had kept in contact after the trials but he didn't trust that the media's scrutiny would stop there. The last thing he needed was people questioning or making up stories about him and Draco.

The priest said a few words that Harry didn't listen to. He knew that the Malfoys weren't religious—that most of the Wizarding World wasn't religious, actually—and that the priest was probably included or just conveniently around at the right time. His attention, instead, went to Draco.

The blond was completely stoic. To anyone else, Draco might have looked bored or even angry that he had to attend the funeral, but Harry knew better. Draco wasn't emotionless, he was just complicated. Harry, though, saw the tremors in those soft hands, and he noted every hard swallow that constricted that pale throat. He caught the wetness in those beautiful grey eyes and he watched attentively as Draco blinked it away.

God, he wanted to run over there and hug the life out of the blond. He wanted to kiss him and run his fingers through that unfairly soft hair until the tears subsided and both of them could breathe a little easier. But Draco had already taken a big leap by asking him to be there, and Harry wasn't going to push it. As much as he wanted to comfort and coddle, he wanted to stay on the blond's good side even more so—and hope that maybe, just maybe, Draco might reach out to him again if he needed to. That was what mattered.

The funeral ended, and the coffin was lowered into the ground. Workers began filling in the dirt like they had timecards to punch and didn't care that the grieving family was still standing right there. It was the family of a Death Eater, though, and Harry knew that that was what let them be so blatant about it.

Narcissa, still crying, wiped her eyes and nodded to him before going to speak with Pansy. The women embraced, but Harry only saw the byproduct of their actions: Draco was now standing alone and vulnerable in front of the grave. He heard the clicking of camera shutters, but the blond didn't even react.

One step, two steps, three steps… Harry could have run to him—and he wanted to, more than anything—but Draco's head snapped up and he froze. Slowly, Draco's expression relaxed a little and he bit his lip. Was that permission? Before Harry could even start to take another step, though, the blond gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and looked back to the grave.

Harry tried not to feel slighted. He knew why Draco wanted him to keep his distance and he didn't blame the blond, but his chest still ached at the rejection. It wasn't about the reporters—or at least not completely—and he told himself that again and again as if that might make the situation sting a little less. Draco didn't want to be emotional in public. They both knew that the second Harry tried to comfort him, he would just break. Already, tears were threatening to fight their way out of his eyes if he let them. Harry just moved back to where he'd been.

The press circled them like vultures. He had no doubt that the front page tomorrow would be covered in pictures of him and Draco, each standing on opposite ends of the same grave. It would be easy, with the angles, to cut out Narcissa and Pansy. Rumors would start, but the distance between them would ultimately keep them from spreading very far. Reporters approached and crowded each of them but, while Harry answered curtly and politely the way he'd been trained, Draco merely stared at the slow-filling hole in front of him.

Narcissa returned quickly, aware that her son was being baited and pressured, but Harry couldn't help the urge to go over there himself. He stayed where he was, though. The elder Malfoy, trained in social niceties as she was, asked the press to show respect and decency by leaving them alone. They didn't, of course, but it at least made a nice quote.

After a few words from Narcissa, Draco kissed her on the cheek and Apparated. Hundreds of cameras seemed to catch that moment, but Narcissa ignored it and merely repeated her earlier request for decency. For a moment, Harry thought she might not have noticed her son's disappearance. She had, though, and made that very clear when her eyes caught his through the chaos. A single nod was all it took.

Harry Apparated without a second thought, leaving the reporter questioning him mid-sentence to gawk at the spot where he'd once stood. There were pictures to document his presence, of course, but he didn't care. They would twist everything he'd said and everything he hadn't said until it fit whatever story they were trying to push, but he didn't really give a shit in that moment. He knew, already, where Draco had gone.

Part of him wished that the blond felt safe enough to just Apparate into their flat—because it was still _theirs_, in his mind—but he knew that Draco wouldn't. That was pressing a boundary too far, in the blond's opinion. Instead, Harry stumbled and caught himself in the familiar, sterile parlor of Malfoy Manor.

He walked quickly, barely shaking off the nausea of Apparition before he was running. His feet took the stairs two at a time, fueled by some kind of panic as if Draco might hurt himself if he didn't get there fast enough. The blond wouldn't, but Harry didn't refuse the burst of adrenaline.

He didn't knock on the door—he'd never knocked, and he wasn't about to start now—but Draco still nearly jumped out of his skin at the intrusion. His face was red and splotchy. Tears were carving their paths down his cheeks like canyons and his hair was ruffled in every direction. Already, he'd completely changed from the man who had just stood beside his father's casket.

"Drake…" This was familiar in all the wrong ways and Harry wanted to throw up. He ached to reach out, now more than ever, and the only thing stopping him was the knowledge that Draco would instantly push him away. The blond was unsteady at best, and Harry knew he had to wait for Draco to come to him. _If_ he came to him…

"What are you doing here?" It was choked and the words were heavy with tears but Harry heard them nevertheless. He'd gotten good at understanding Draco when he was like this.

"I knew you weren't okay." Draco forced a deep breath, but Harry could already see that it wasn't working. He knew better than to rush the blond, but he couldn't just stand there and watch him suffer so he wordlessly held his arms open. For a second, Draco just stared at him. Then, he took a step closer.

That single step was all it took to completely shatter the resolve that either of them had. Harry met him halfway, and Draco buried himself in the black robes that he'd helped pick out as if he could disappear into the material. The tears came readily, but Harry just tangled a hand in his hair and held him. This was them. This was the routine that they'd developed and followed for three years of funerals and sentencings and heartache. Three years…

Harry tried not to feel the rush of warmth beneath his skin because he didn't want Draco to be hurting but it felt good to comfort him like this. It was a good, cathartic kind of breakdown. He knew this better than he knew himself, and the way that Draco fit against his chest never failed to make it feel like he was coming home. God, he'd missed this more than he'd realized.

"Come home with me." It wasn't a question, but he still waited for a response. He prayed that calling their flat _home_ wouldn't spook the blond, but Draco just sniffled and nodded. In less than a second, Harry had Apparated them. They collapsed back onto the couch, and Harry drew the blond between his legs to snuggle against his chest the way they'd done a thousand times before. This was them.

"Your heart is racing," Draco whispered, each word brushing against the layer of cloth between them. Harry just curled his fingers a little tighter in the blond's hair and shushed him. He didn't want to talk. They didn't need to talk, talking was what always messed them up and ruined moments like this. Slowly, he slid his hand a bit to one side and ran the pad of his thumb over the sensitive skin just below Draco's ear, earning a shiver. He knew Draco's body.

And Draco knew his. As the tears slowed, Harry felt two hands skim up his chest and settle on either side of his neck. Draco dug his fingers in, palming and massaging the muscles that Harry always tensed whenever he was anxious. Immediately, Harry relaxed. He let his hands roam mindlessly, reacquainting himself with the body of the man he'd loved for so many years. This wasn't sexual—and it didn't need to be—but he still found himself tracing scars as if they might have changed and counting moles the way most people counted sheep.

This was them. He relaxed into the routine like falling into bed after a hard day, and he was pleased to feel Draco do the same. Being emotional like that always drained the blond. Harry hadn't really slept well since he'd heard about the funeral, but that worry evaporated now that he could hold Draco and assure himself that they were okay. Not back together, but both in one piece.

"I love you." It wasn't supposed to sound so guilty, like he was confessing to some kind of crime, but Draco just nodded. I _still_ love you, was what he should have said. Because they weren't getting back together and they didn't live together or love each other anymore. That last part was what always tripped Harry up, though.

They were breathing in sync now, and Harry's eyelids were getting heavier by the second. He hadn't expected Draco to say it back, but the silence was comfortable enough between them that he knew the blond wasn't mad. Draco had never minded honesty, even if it wasn't what he'd wanted to hear at the time.

"I missed this," he whispered, letting one arm settle around the blond's waist. "I missed you." Another nod, but no verbal reply. Harry knew it was cruel to press an issue like this when they were both so exhausted and emotionally drained, but he also knew that Draco was his most blunt and honest self when he was tired.

"Do you love me, Drake?" Again, he should have put that _still_ in there but he didn't. Something about that felt wrong, as if he was admitting that they'd ended and was just trying to stir up old shit rather than explain something that hadn't ever changed.

"Of course I love you, idiot." They both smiled a bit. The warmth Harry had fought off earlier came rushing back but he let it this time, convinced that he deserved to feel it. Because Draco still loved him. He'd known that on some level, of course, but it still felt unbelievably good to hear it.

"I don't want to overstep or make this sexual, but can I please kiss you?" Draco hesitated. He pulled back enough that Harry could see the battle waging in his eyes between yes and no. They both knew it wasn't a good idea. It wasn't safe, it wasn't detached, and it wasn't what they'd agreed to when they'd broken up. But, then again, neither was the funeral.

Finally, Draco sighed. Harry was sure that he'd decided against it and was about to launch into a long speech about making this into something it wasn't. He braced himself, even as Draco sighed again.

"I wouldn't have come here if I didn't trust your intentions." Wait, what? Harry reeled, but those grey eyes were just resting calmly, staring back into his own without an ounce of hesitation or fear. Was that… permission? He tried to test the waters a bit by bringing one hand up to cup Draco's cheek. Instantly, those gorgeous eyes fluttered closed and Draco leaned into his palm. God, that surrender… It was so much like old times and Harry really just wanted to kiss the life out of him but he didn't want to scare Draco away.

He pulled the blond up an inch or two and guided him into the kiss, but kept it tame. Draco tasted like peppermint tea—the kind he drank every morning, and the kind that Harry still kept packages of to smell when he was particularly depressed or lonely. There was no passion or heat behind the kiss, even if Harry had been hoping there would be, but that was alright. It was sweet, and comforting, and said _I love you_ more than words ever could.

"God, I missed you…" Draco just nodded and settled back down on his chest. "Stay with me tonight. Please, I haven't been sleeping the last couple days and our bed feels empty without you." Draco pulled back, enough to kneel between Harry's legs on the couch and frown.

"We broke up for a reason, Harry, I—"

"Please. No sex, no talking or arguing, just sleeping. I have the sweats you love and a ton of your clothes are still here if you'd prefer." Harry swallowed hard, trying not to cry at the look of disbelief on Draco's face. Had he pushed too far? He should have just let the blond go and went back to his sad little life alone, but his entire being ached at the idea of sleeping alone tonight. Now that he remembered what Draco felt like in his arms, what Draco smelled like, tasted like…

"You have the sweats? The red ones?" Harry nodded. He definitely shouldn't have mentioned that, especially because he'd told Draco during one of their more hostile post-breakup encounters that he'd burned them, but it was too late now.

"Can I see?" Harry hated how timid Draco sounded in his own flat. It was _theirs,_ not Harry's and, as far as he was concerned, Draco had as much right to everything in it as he did. He didn't say any of that, though. Instead, he merely nodded and stood, letting Draco get up on his own and follow when he was ready.

In their bedroom, Harry didn't even have to look for the pair of sweats in question. They were tucked haphazardly beneath the pillows on the right side of the bed, where Draco had slept, and he grabbed them quickly, hoping that Draco wouldn't see the location, but he wasn't fast enough. Draco stood in the doorway, one hand clamped over his mouth.

Wordlessly, Harry handed over the sweats. They were a deep burgundy color with the Gryffindor crest on the right thigh and the word _Potter_ spelled vertically down the left leg. His Quidditch sweats. Draco had always loved them—said they smelled like him, and that the material reminded him of when they'd first gotten together because Harry had worn them constantly. Harry had always loved seeing the Slytherin with his name quite literally on him.

Now, though, Draco held the material like it might burn him and he ran his fingers over it in disbelief. Was he surprised that Harry hadn't burned them? That was justified, but Harry had a feeling it wasn't that because Draco had always known he was too sentimental to destroy things like that.

"You kept them." Harry just nodded, ignoring the awe in Draco's voice. "Why?"

"They're yours, not mine."

"They have your name on them."

"And they smell like you. What's your point?" Draco just stared at the material in his hands, his eyes wet yet again. Sometimes Harry wished that they shared some kind of mental bond so he would be able to tell what Draco was feeling without having to play this guessing game, but then again maybe the guessing game was just part of their dynamic. He was usually pretty good at it, at least. Wordlessly, Draco unfolded the sweats and traced each letter: R.

He sighed and set them on the bed, which Harry was certain was a sign that Draco was leaving, but rather than block the door he just stood there. If Draco wanted to leave, then he would leave. As much as that killed him, Harry would… Wait a second. Draco was undressing?

Instinctively, Harry turned away just as Draco pulled off his undershirt. The blond laughed. God, Harry had missed that sound so much… It was light, and happy, and one of the purest things he'd ever heard. For years, he'd _lived_ for that sound.

"Harry, we shared a bed for three years, I think you can watch me change." He flushed and turned back around, embarrassed that he'd reacted like that and that Draco had caught him, but the sight before him made him freeze. Draco was standing in just his boxers, as pale and beautiful as ever. As he watched, the blond slipped into the sweats that were much too baggy and never long enough—given that Harry was much more muscular, and not a fucking giant—but they fit nevertheless. The elastic in the cuffs had been stretched out from years of wear and tear, and the bow tied at the waist was knotted permanently at Draco's exact circumference. Draco smiled and ran his fingers delicately over the worn Gryffindor crest.

"You're staring, Harry." He was, but he didn't care. It was like they'd stepped into a time machine and gone back a year. Everything in the bedroom was exactly the same because Harry hadn't dared to get rid of Draco's things or even move them out of place, but Draco was the finishing touch. His shy little smile made Harry want to tackle him right then and there. This was the Draco that only he got to see.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" He blushed unconsciously, but refused to be embarrassed by this.

"Because you look like home." Draco paled, letting his hand shake as he fingered the material of the sweats that neither of them would claim ownership of, but he didn't run. That was progress, right? He took a step closer, testing the limits, but Draco shook his head almost instantly. It was the blond who moved closer, who closed the distance between them, and who eased his robes off of his shoulders. He would have gladly left them on the floor, but Draco spelled them over neatly into the closet.

"Always the neat one," he tsked, but they were both smiling.

"One of us has to be, and it wasn't going to be you." Draco eased his hands from Harry's waist up under his shirt, lingering over scars and muscles the way Harry had on the couch less than an hour earlier. Harry stayed still, afraid to break whatever was happening between them. He let Draco take off his tie, his button up, his undershirt, and his belt before he stopped him. Draco's hands were steady, though, even as he held them.

"This doesn't have to be…" He didn't finish that thought, but he didn't need to. Draco's expression relaxed into a small smile and he clicked his tongue in response.

"Dirty, dirty mind. I was merely going to get you into your pajamas." Harry chuckled, still hesitant but glad that Draco was okay enough to joke with him like that. They both knew that Harry slept naked. It had driven Draco crazy during the first few months of their relationship because Harry was a natural blanket hog and he'd used Draco being dressed as an excuse. Now, though, it was normal. Or, at least it used to be.

"You're hilarious. Really, though, I'll grab a pair of sweats and—" Draco cut him off with a gentle kiss.

"It's okay, really. You know I would tell you if I was uncomfortable with it." He did know that, but he still just nodded. "Besides, I think I can control myself around you for one night." Harry recoiled, searching for any kind of bitterness in Draco's face, but the blond was smirking. They were… teasing each other.

"You sure? I hear I'm pretty irresistible." They were teasing, and Harry might have even called it friendly banter or flirting. With Draco's palms on his chest, though, he didn't care what they called it as long as they didn't stop because this felt so horribly familiar…

"I'm pretty disciplined," Draco murmured, trailing his lips over Harry's collarbone. "You, of all people, would know that." That was true—just a calm, average fact—but the way Draco said it sent shivers down Harry's spine. He did know that Draco had excellent control of himself and his emotions in nearly every situation, but he also knew exactly how to break that control. And Draco knew he knew.

"I'm sure you have a weakness." Pale eyebrows rose in his direction, but Harry didn't back down. Draco had come to him, Draco had started this conversation, Draco had put them in this position, and Harry was not going to stop it. The blond smirked, but eased himself back a bit.

"You would know, wouldn't you?" His mouth was dry and his lips throbbed with his every heartbeat but he wouldn't push any farther. This was more than he could have ever hoped for, and he was terrified that even an inch further would shatter it before his very eyes. Draco watched his expression, eyes flicking from feature to feature, but ultimately backed off. He was still smiling a bit, though.

"Come to bed, in _your_ pajamas. I want to give you a massage." Harry balked, but Draco was instantly back and brushing his fingers against the skin over Harry's ribs. "Relax, I said a massage and I mean just a massage. Please, just let me touch you…" Harry caved and nodded.

It was no secret between them how particular Draco was about physical contact. The friends he'd had in school who had been allowed to touch him were either dead or had drifted apart with time. Growing up with his father, Draco had always shied away from physical contact unless it came from his mother. They'd worked hard, for months, to get to a place where Draco was comfortable touching him, even in the most innocent ways, and Harry had loved it. He had no doubt that Draco was just as desperate for human touch as Harry was to keep him there.

"Okay." Harry undressed quickly and took his boxers off, as Draco had requested, before lying face down on his side of the bed. He heard a soft huff of discontent from the blond, who maneuvered them to the center of the bed and straddled his upper thighs, but there was no ultimate rebuke so he stayed still.

Draco's hands were _magical_. They'd spent at least a hundred nights like this, after Harry had had a particularly hard day or if Draco had been particularly needy, and Draco had long ago memorized his anatomy. He knew every muscle, including which ones Harry overworked, and he knew exactly how to relax them. The blond worked slowly, leisurely, drawing it out as if they had all the time in the world. In that moment, they did.

Those gifted hands moved all over his body, alternating placement so none of his skin was ever rubbed raw because they had no massage oil. Well, they did—it was in the drawer where they'd always kept it—but Draco hadn't reached for it and Harry hadn't protested. There was something so much more pure about just feeling Draco's skin against his, with no oil to separate them.

Draco avoided his upper thighs, his ass, and anywhere that could have been considered sexual but Harry didn't mind. This was about being connected, not aroused. That said, he couldn't help but groan when he felt a hard, cloth-covered bulge press into his ass. Above him, Draco chuckled and continued massaging along his shoulder blades as if he was completely innocent. Harry was not convinced, but he stayed still nevertheless.

He'd relaxed once again and almost forgotten about the erection Draco had clearly wanted him to feel when the blond did it again. His whole body keened into the sensation, and Draco chuckled low against his throat. The blond was fucking with him. He wanted to protest, to flip them and fuck Draco until he didn't dare tease him again, but he was too afraid of breaking this. Instead, he just lay there.

Draco knew his body. He alternated between massaging different muscle groups and teasing Harry's stronger erogenous zones. Harry was hard, and about thirty seconds from humping the mattress, when Draco ground against him again. This time, though, he was much more direct. The blond knew his body, for better or for worse, and managed to grind the entirety of his erection into Harry's prostate through the sweats. Harry spasmed on the bed, earning a low chuckle.

"Sensitive…" Draco whispered. "You act like no one's touched you in months." Harry knew he should leave it, and he knew he should let those words dissipate into the air like all the others had, but he couldn't. He wanted Draco to know, even if it pissed him off.

"That's because no one has." Above him, Draco pulled back. The hands left his skin, but Harry didn't turn his head or try to look behind him because he wasn't sure he could have this conversation face to face. Clearly, he'd taken the blond by surprise.

"You haven't been with anyone in months?" He shook his head, willing himself to be brave. For a Gryffindor, he sure felt awfully scared of how this conversation was going to play out. Would Draco be angry? He couldn't really imagine why, but he still couldn't stop the thought.

"No, not since we broke up." Harry had managed to stun the blond speechless, and he couldn't decide if he was proud or concerned by that. Everything about this felt far too fragile for statements like that. But, Draco had always valued honesty.

"You're fucking with me." He shook his head, feeling Draco shift his weight a bit against his legs. As long as Draco didn't leave, he didn't care what they talked about. But the utter disbelief in the blond's voice rivaled that of when he'd been given the sweats and Harry once again felt his chest ache. Draco had thought Harry had moved on.

"No, I'm not. I had my fair share of hookups before we got together and I knew no one would ever compare after we broke up. Because I trust you, Drake, and I can let go with you. I've never been able to do that with anyone else." Tears hit his back, but he didn't comment on them. It was enough to know that Draco was crying and trying silently to control his voice before responding.

"Stop that," he finally choked out. "Stop saying shit like that." He sounded hurt, as if Harry had verbally stabbed him in the back somehow, but Harry didn't understand why. Was something he'd said bad? It was all true, and Draco had always valued honesty even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear so surely the blond knew he was being truthful? Had that changed?

"Why? It's true." More tears, and he felt Draco's weight shift again as he tried to scrub them from his expression but he ignored it. Why was the blond so upset by this? Harry liked to think that he knew Draco pretty well and it scared him a bit that he didn't understand this sudden emotional outburst. He wanted to turn and comfort the blond, but refused.

"Because we broke up for a reason, Harry, because it hurts and because I miss you and because you talk about me like I'm the love of your life when we haven't spoken in months. You can't fucking—" Harry twisted and caught Draco's wrists before he could start beating Harry's chest. He held, even as Draco struggled, but then the blond collapsed onto his chest and smeared tears across his skin as if they might soak in and heal their hearts. Draco was shaking terribly again, but Harry just hugged him.

"You are the love of my life, Draco, and you've always known that. I know we broke up for a reason—for a lot of reasons—but that doesn't mean I gave up on us. We both needed space, and we both needed time to figure out our own issues before trying to deal with each other's and I get that. But I miss you so much. Yes, it hurts, but I don't care because it's worth it, to me. _You_ are worth it to me." Draco was crying steadily, now, but Harry didn't care. He tangled a hand in those blond strands and merely held him, having said his peace.

"I hate you…" There was no anger behind those words, though, and Harry had heard them enough times during their relationship to know what they really meant. Draco hated being emotional, and he hated breaking down in front of other people. He hated that Harry kept pushing him, and he hated that he couldn't just shut down the way he did with everyone else—but he didn't hate Harry.

"You've never hated me." Draco just sighed against his chest. "I'll tell you that I hate you too if that makes this easier for you." The blond's eyes were closed and Harry didn't have to look to feel the glare, but he held his ground. They lay there in silence for far too long. Harry was sure that Draco would stand as soon as he was steady enough and Apparate away without a word of goodbye. He wanted to tighten his grip until the blond couldn't even shift, but he didn't. Forcing Draco to stay wouldn't do any good.

They'd done this so many times… This was how they'd used to lay when they made up after a fight and Harry's entire body begged for the part that should have come next. He wanted to feel Draco—_really_ feel him—and he wanted oxygen to be the only thing that made them break apart. It was insane, especially after so long, but this still felt so natural…

Harry knew, realistically, that being back with Draco should have felt at least a little strange because he should have gotten used to having tons of space or moving around a silent flat. But, strangely enough, the opposite was true. It felt like those ten months of separation had just been some kind of blip. Like, now that they were physically together again, the previous—and correct—timeline could resume.

"I love you," Harry tried again, whispering the words like he wasn't sure how Draco would take them. He prayed that it wouldn't be the final straw, but he had no idea what was going on in that beautiful mind or if Draco was even still awake so he just waited. As if on cue, the body against his sighed.

"I love you too, asshole." The sentence was bitter, but Harry couldn't help laughing. Draco was staying. He could be pouty and he could act like he'd been dragged into this all he wanted, but he was staying. Just the thought made his chest a little lighter.

* * *

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